Sympathy For The Devil
by Stefbug
Summary: Post BoA Death, formerly Remy LeBeau, watches the life he's left behind and realises that there is a decision that he must make if he is to be anything in this life.


Disclaimer: I do not own Remy LeBeau or any of the characters/locations associated with him, they are the sole property of Marvel. This is not for profit, just for my own twisted sense of enjoyment.

Notes: This came to me not long after Remy's transformation into death. I can't say I was pleased about it, nor that I was at all happy with the way that arc was presented. Such a missed opportunity.

Anyway, this is the lead in to a bigger story that I am working on, although it can be read as a story in its own right. It is my take on a way to get Remy into a place that could lead out to so much more. Enjoy.

Sympathy for the Devil

Its midnight, the witching hour, although the only way to tell would be to look at a watch or a clock, because the night sky is obscured by clouds. The rain pours down in sheets, the thunder roars its anger into the darkness and the lightning barely banishes it before the world is swallowed again. Every living thing that has any sense of self preservation is tucked well away, safe from nature's wrath. Every living thing bar one.

The lightning flashes again, illuminating the rooftops of the houses, and the mansion that sits outside of town. Anybody who looked up at the mansion now would swear that its roof sported at least one gargoyle, but that isn't the case. A close look as the lightning flashes for a third time reveals that it is a man, crouched motionlessly and silently on the roof braving the storm, or perhaps revelling in it.

The wind pulls hard at the long coat that flaps open and ignored around him, like the wings of some great black bat or skulking dragon, not that the coat would do him any good against the elements, even if it were closed. The is water soaking into him through his thin shirt and trousers, turning the already black material as dark as the sky, but he ignores the rain, ignores the soaking and the cold, instead focusing on the occupants of the mansion below him.

Another flash of lightning although the radiance is unable to banish the inky darkness of his skin, nor to lend any colour to the stark bone white of his hair. The only colour on him is the red eyes which wince at the light, the only sign that he is living other than the occasional small movement of his chest. That and the slow, dull pounding in his ears that lets him know that his heart hasn't broken in two.

A frown crosses his face as a peal of laughter rings out into the night, a rich sound that is soon swallowed by the storm. What could be a tear, or simply another rivulet of rain, slides down his face unheeded. Another peal of laughter rings out, and as the storm answers with a crack of thunder he erupts into motion. As agile as a cat he is up, over the roof and flying through the air towards the nearest tree, as if driven away by the distant sound of happiness.

Settled once again in his watchful, gargoyle-like pose he looks into the place he once called home, at the people he once called friends and family, at the warmth he once shared in, and a sudden shudder rocks him before he can get it under control.

When he looks at the mansion all he can see is rubble, smouldering and broken, and when he looks at those he left behind all he can see are corpses, bloated, decayed and choked. That is his curse now, to see the death of all things and to know that he wants to cause it, to know that he could easily cause it with just one sweep of his hands and a little concentration. He could kill them all and he wouldn't feel a thing.

Looking into their lives he does feel something though, a faint and ghostly remembrance of who he was, and with great effort he relaxes both his hands and the power built up inside of him, because he isn't the killer that he was made to be, he isn't the avatar of Death, and he proved that when he walked away from Sinister. He can still remember the warmth of love, although it leaves him chilled to the core now. He can still remember what it was like to be Remy LeBeau, Gambit, although it pains him to do so because it reminds him of everything he gave up.

Finally the pain becomes too much and he slips away from the mansion and into the night like the thief he was. No, the thief he still is. Nobody has sympathy for the Devil, but there is perhaps one person who could have sympathy for him, and if she does, and with the power of faith at her hands, perhaps he can discover once again who Remy LeBeau is, and if there is anything left worth saving in him.


End file.
